“Yesterday afternoon,” says I, wondering what had upset her, “I gave you a sample of our pickles—”
“Pickles?” she cut in. “Do you mean to call those filthy things pickles?”
I stared. Then a horrified thought sort of swooped down on me. I hadn’t tasted the pickles! Could it be that something was wrong with them?
I got out of the yard as quickly as I could. And hurrying to the nearest alley, out of sight, I unscrewed the top of a pint jar. Stiffening myself, to overcome my gaggy feeling, I took a bite. And then—
Well, say! I spit that pickle clean over the top of Denny Kirk’s barn. For if I must tell you the truth it was the rottenest pickle I ever had tasted in all my life. The wonder to me was that I didn’t heave up my whole insides.
Cutting down the street to the store, I found my chum with his face buried in a Chicago newspaper.
“Jerry,” says he, looking up at me with eyes as big as saucers, “did you eat any of the new pickles?”
“Thank heaven no!” I yipped, running to the door to spit.
“It would be awful,” he wiped his sweaty face, “if any of the people were to die.”
“Die?” says I, going cold. And then the truth of the matter dawned on me, too. It was our pickles that had done the poisoning!